The grace of God ful of mightThat is a king and euer was,Mote amang vs alightAnd yiue vs alle is swet grace,Me to spek and you to lereThat hit be worsip, lord, to the;Me to teche and you to bereThat helplich to ure sowles be,That Ich mote with moch worthingThrogh is might so hit fulfille,To yov schow is vp-rising,If hit be His swet wille.Al that God suffrid of pine,Hit nas noght for is owen gilt,Ok hit was, man, for sin thineThat wer—for sin—in helle ipilt.Tho Lucifer steigh in pride—That was angel in heuen so bright—Vte of heuen he gan glide,And in-to helle sone he lighte.And with him mani an mo,That no tunge ne might telle,With him fille adune al-soIn-to the derk pit of helle.Seue daies and seue night,As ye seeth that fallith snowe,Vte of heuen he alightAnd in-to helle wer ithrow.For the prude of LuciferThe tethe angle fille in-to helle,And al that to him boxum were.Euer in pine hi mot dwelle.Har stides for to ful-filleThat wer i-falle for prude and hore,God makid Adam to is willeTo fille har stides that wer ilor.Skil, resoun, and ek mightHe yef Adam in his mode,To be stidfast with al right,And leue harme and do gode.God yaf him a gret maistriOf al that was in watir and londe,Of Paradis al the balye,Whan Him likid to is honde,Foules, bestis and the frute—Saf o tre He him forbede—Of Paradis the grete dute,And yit he sinied throgh iuil red.To him the Devil en-vieThat he in is stid schold be broghte.A serpent he com throgh felonie,And makid Eue chonge hir thoght.Whi com he rather to EueThan he com to Adam?Ichul you telle, sires, be-leue;For womman is lef euer to man.Womman mai turne man is willeWhar yho wol pilt hir to,That is the resun and skilleThat the Devil com hir first to.'Ette', he seid, 'Of this appil,If that thou wolt witti be.The worth as witti of might and willeAs God him-silf in Trinite.'Hi nad bot that appil i-yetteThat the sin nas i-do.Glad was the Devil, wol ye iwit,For the sorow that he sold to.Of Paradis hi wer ute pilt,With trauail har liuelode to winne,And vte flemid for har gilt,And neuer efte Paradis to com inne.In the vale of EboirHis liuelod he most swink sore,With sorow and care and dreri wonHe liued niyen hundred yer and more.Aftir is lif that he had here,Nedis he most wend to helleFor the trepas that he did here.There he most bide and dwelle.God makid mankin more,Ok to helle the deuil ham broght,And euer ham traiid throgh is lore.Non fram him scapid noght.God is prophetis to ham send,And seid hov he sold be sauid,As bi Moyses that am wendA-ye the propheci yit i-sinid.God wist wel bi thilk sayThat bi no man that was ycor,Whan bi prophetis no bi laiThat communelich hi ne wer forlor.Holi Bokis fort fulfilGod is angle anon forth send,As bi angle GabrielThat to the Maid was iwend.Flees He tok of Maid Mari,God and man is kund to-gadir,And that was a gret maistriThat the doghtir ber the fader.Maid bere heuen KingThat is al ure creatoure.Maid ber the swet thing,Ther-for sso ne les noght hir flure.God Him yed an erth herethritti winter and somdel mo,As Holi Writ vs gan lere,He suffrid bothe pine and wo.Man ayens God so giltTo heuen non sowle ne mighte,Fort God is Sone in rode was piltAnd wan vs heuen light.Judas ne cuthe is Lord noght hold,His owen disciple yit he was.For thritti peniis he him sold.Ynom and ibund He was.He was ibobid and i-smitte,And hi spette in is face.Hi bete him rede, if He cuthe witte,Woch of ham al hit was.He was ibund to a treAnd ibet with scurges kene,That al the blode vt gan fle.Ouer al is bodi hit was sene.Sith hi nom Him as a thefAnd lad Him be-for Pilate,For He nas noght to ham lef,Hi had to Him grete hate.Pilat bed ham do har best,A-ye the law be he nold,For no gilt bi Him he nistWar-for deth suffri He ssold.Hi nailed Him in hond and fete,As ye mow al i-se.For the appil that Adam eteDeth He tholid opon the tre.The wikkid men nol leue noghtThat He wer fullich ded so,Fort that with a sper hi ad Him soght,And clef is swet hert atwo.Ther was in the lond a knightThat het Josep of Arimathier,That louid Jesus wel arightAnd thoght is wel to honuri.He wend to Pilat swithe snel,And be-soght him mercy,If hit wer is wilThe bodi grant biri.Tho Pilat had igrant is bone,Glad y-nogh he was.He nem that swet bodi adoun,And biriid hit in a fair plas.His moder stode Him be-side,And Seit Ion ek al-so,Bittir teris vte gan glide,Hir thoght hir hert wol atwo.Hit nas no wonder thogh yo wepFor hir swet child, alWith nailes He was ismit dep,With sper hi delet Him in two.Al hir joi was agoTho yo Him sei dei in rode,For to wep yhe nad no moBot foure bitre teris of blode.Who spekith of deil a-ye that del,Neuer such nas ther none,As whan that hi him be-held,As yho makid and Seint Jon.Sith hi seid at one moutheThat He wold destru temple and chirche,And that He was wel coutheThat al falsnis schold wirche.And vp Pilat hi cried apan,Euchon at one voisThat hi schold hold BarabamAnd do Jesus on the crois.In this maner He was ipinsedAs His swet wil hit was,And deth for mankyn suffred.The thrid dai vp He ros.After that He light into helle,Ther al the sowles wer iwisse,Al his frendis He broght vt alInto joi and heuen blis.Whan in helle was Seint Jon,Patriarkes and other mo,Hit isene ther scapid non;Profetis that God louid also,Al in helle were i-fast;Fort Jesus Crist throgh is mighteOf the pit vte He ham cast,And broght ham heuen lyght.Throgh is deth He ouer-cam,As He is manhed siwed,—As profetis prechid in His name—So that He deth suffrid.Tho He rose fram deth to liue,As tellith Daui the king,Is godhed He gan to kithe;Holi Boke tellith is up-rising.Jesus was siker inoghThat seid: Erlich Ic wol right me,And answard with-vt wogh,After that, deth ouercom be.The thrid dai He ros to liue,Is lore riuedlich He send,His deciplis He makid blithe.Ther-after in the world ham sendOf His lore forto preche—Hou hi, lord, ssold siu the—And the sinful folk to techHou miri hit is to with the be.Ther-after He steigh to heuen aboue,Ther joi is that euer lest,And ther He sal al vs loueIn His swet blisful fest. Amen.

Be-hold to thi Lord, man, whare He hangith on rode,And weep, if thou might, teris al of blode.And loke to is heued with thornis al be-wonde,And to is felle so bispette and to the sper is wnde.Bi-hold to is brest nakid, and is blodi side,Stiuiith is armis that sprad beth so wide.His fair lere falowith, and dimmith is sighte,Ther-to is hendi bodi on rode so is y-tighte.His lenden so hangith as cold as marbre stone,For luste of lechuri nas ther neuer none.Be-hold to is nailes in hond and ek in fote,And how the stremis ernith of is swet blode.Be-ginne at is heued and loke to is to:Thou ne findest in is bodi bot anguis and wo.Turne Him uppe, turne Him downe, thi swete lemman,Quer al thou findist Him blodi other wan.'Leue, for the mi brest nakid schinith, glisniing.Mi side dep istunge, mi hondes sore bleding.''Man, thou hast the forlor and ful neith to helle ibor.Wend a-ye and com to me and Ich wol underfang the.For first Ich makid the of noght, and sith dere the iboght,Whan Ich mi lif yef for the and ihang was on tre.''Man, bi-hold what Ich for the tholid up the rode tre.Ne mai no kinnes wo be mare than min was, tho Ich heng thare.Hire me, man, to the gredind, for loue of the biter deiand.Loke mi pinis biter and strang, wan Ich was nailed throgh fot and hond.''For the Ich ad hard stundis, dintes grete and sore wondes.For the biter drink Ich dronk, and thou cunnest me no thonk.With-vte Ich was ipinid sore, with-in Ich was mochil more.'For thou nelt thonk me the loue that Ich schowid
the.Latin prose occurs before lines 1, 17, 19, 23 and at the end of the poem, this is not included.

Lollai, Lollai, litil child

Lollai, lollai, litil child, whi wepistou so sore?Nedis mostou wepe, hit was iyarkid the yoreEuer to lib in sorow, and sich and mourne euere,As thin eldren did er this while hi aliues wore.Lollai, lollai, litil child, child lolai, lullow.Into vncuth world incommen so ertow.Bestis and thos foules, the fisses in the flode,And euch schef aliues imakid of bone and blode,Whan hi commith to the world hi doth ham silf sum gode;Al bot the wrech brol that is of Adam is blode.Lollai, lollai, litil child, to kar ertou bemette;Thou nost noght this worldis wild before the is isette.Child, if betidith that thou ssalt thriue and the,Thench thou were ifostred vp thi moder kne.Euer hab mund in thi hert of thos thinges thre:Whan thou commist, whan thou art and what ssal com of the.Lollai, lollai, litil child, child lollai, lollai,With sorow thou com into this world, with sorow ssalt wend awai.Ne tristou to this world, hit is thi ful vo.The rich he makith pouer, the pore rich also;Hit turneth wo to wel and ek wel to wo.Ne trist no man to this world, whil hit turnith so.Lollai, lollai, litil child, thi fote is in the whele.Thou nost whoder turne to wo other wele.Child, thou ert a pilgrim in wikidnis ibor,Thou wandrest in this fals world, thou loke the bifor.Deth ssal com with a blast vte of a well dim horreAdam is kin dun to cast, him silf hath ido befor.Lollai, lollai, litil child, so wo the worth AdamIn the lond of paradis, throgh wikidnes of Satan.Child, thou nert a pilgrim bot an vncuthe gist,Thi dawes beth itold, thi iurneis beth icast;Whoder thou salt wend north or est,Deth the sal betide with bitter bale in brest.Lollai, lollai, litil child, this wo Adam the wroght,Whan he of the appil ete and Eue hit him betacht.

Song of the Times

Whose thenchith vp this carful lifNighte and dai that we beth inne,So much we seeth of sorow and strif,And lite ther is of world is winne.Hate and wreth ther is wel riue,And trew loue is ful thinne.Men that beth in heiighist liueMest icharged beth with sinne.Fals and lither is this lond,As al dai we mai i-se,Ther-in is bothe hate and onde,Ich wene that euer so wol be.Coueitise hath the law an hondeThat the trewthe he ne mai i-se,Nov is maister prude and onde.Alas, louerde, whi suffrith he?Wold Holi Cherch pilt is mighteAnd law of lond pilt him to,Than schold coueitise and vnrighteVte of lond ben y-do.Holi Cherch schold hold is rightFor no eie no for no loue,That hi ne schold schow har might—For lordingen boste that beth aboue—To entredite and a-monsiAl thai, whate hi euir be,That lafful men doth robbi,Whate in lond, what in see;And thos hoblurs namelichThat husbond be-nimeth eri of grund,Men ne schold ham biri in non church,Bot cast ham vte as a hund.Thos king is ministris beth i-schend,To right and law that ssold tak hede,And al the lond fort amendOf thos theuis hi taketh mede.Be the lafful man to deth i-broghtAnd is catel awei ynom,Of his deth ne tellith hi noght,Bot of har prei hi hab som.Hab hi the siluer and the medeAnd the catel vnder-fo,Of feloni hi ne taketh hede;Al thilk trepas is a-go.Of thos auorbisen Ich herd telle:The lion is king of alle bestisAnd—herknith al to mi spelle—In his lond he did an heste.The lyon lete cri as hit was do,For he hird lome to telle,And eke him was i-told al-so,That the wolf didde noght welle.And the fox, that lither grome,With the wolf i-wreiid was.To-for har lord hi schold comeTo amend har trepas.And so men didde that seli asse,That trepasid noght no did no gilte,With ham bothe i-wreiid was,And in the ditement was ipilt.The uoxe hird a-mang al menne,And told the wolf with the brode cruneThat on him send gees and henne,That other geet and motune.The seli asse wend was saf,For he ne eete noght bote grasse.None yiftes he ne yaf,Ne wend that no harm nasse.Tho hi to har lord com to tune,He told to ham law and skille.Those wikid bestis lutid adune,Lord, hi seiid, What is thi wille?Tho spek the lion hem to,To the fox anone his wille:'Tel me, boi, what hast ido?Men beth aboute the to spille.''Gees no hen nad Ich noght,Sire, for soth Ich the sigge,Bot as Ich ham dere boght,And bere ham vp myn owen rigge.''God is grame most hi haueThat in the curte the so piltWhan hit is so, Ich vouche-saue.Ich for-yiue the this gilte.'The fals wolf stode be-hind.He was doggid and ek felle.'Ich am icom of grete kind,Pes thou grant me that might ful welle.''What hast i-do, bel amy,That thou me so oxist pes?'Sire, he seid, 'I nel noght lie,If thou me woldist hire a res.''For Ich huntid vp the douneTo loke, Sire, mi biyete.Ther Ich slow a motune,Ye, Sire, and fewe gete.''Ich am iwreiid, Sire, to the,For that ilk gilt.Sire, Ichul sker me:Y ne yaf ham dint no pilt.''For soth, I sigge the, belami,Hi nadde no gode munde,Thai that wreiid the to mei.Thou ne diddist noght bot thi kund.''Sei thou me, asse, what hast ido?Me thenchith thou cannist no gode.Whi nadistou as other mo?Thou come of lither stode.''Sertis, Sire, not Ich noght.Ich ete sage abuil gras,More harm me ne did Ich noght.Ther-for iwreiid Ich was.''Bel ami, that was misdo,That was a-ye thi kyndForto et such gras so.Hastilich ye him bind.''Al his bonis ye to-draw.Loke that ye noght lete,And that Ich yiue al for law,That his fleis be al ifrette.'Al so hit farith nov in lond,Whose wol tak ther-to hede,Of thai that habbith an hond:Of theuis hi takith mede.the lafful man ssal be ibund,And ido in strang pine,And ihold in fast prisund,Fort that he make fine;And the thef to skap soThat doth euer a-ye the right!God, take hede ther-to,That is al ful of might!Thus farith al the world nuthe,As we mai al ise,Bothe est and west, north and suthe,God vs help and the Trinite!Trewith is ifaillid with fremid and sibbeAl-so wide as al this lond.Ne mai no man ther-in libbe,What throgh couetise and throgh onde.Thogh lafful man wold hold is lifIn loue, in charite and in pes,Sone me ssul compas is lif,And that in a litel res.Prude is maister and coueitise,The thrid brother men clippeth ond;Night and dai he fondith i-wisse,Lafful men to hab har lond.Whan erth hath erthe i-getteAnd of erthe so hath inovgh,Whan he is ther-in i-stekkeWo is him that was in wough!What is the gode that man ssal habVte of this world whan he ssal go?A sori wede, whi ssal Ich gab?For he broght with him no mo.Right as he com, he ssal wend,In wo, in pine, in pouerte.Takith gode hede, men, to yure end,For al I sigge, so hit wol be.Y not whar-of beth men so pruteOf erthe and axen, felle and bone.Be the soule enis vte,A uiler caraing nis ther non.The caraing is so lolich to seeThat vnder erth men mot hit hide,Bothe wif and child wol fram him fle,Ther nis no frend that wol him bide.What wol men for the sowle del?Corne no mel, wel thou wost,Bot wel seld; at the meleA rowgh bare trenchur other a crust.The begger that the crust ssal hab,Wel hokirlich he lokith ther-an.Soth to sigge and noght to gabbe,Right noght he is i-paiid apan.Than seiith the begger in is mode:The crust is bothe hard and touth.The wreche was hard that ow the gode.Hard for hard is gode y-nowgh.Moch misanter that for him biddePater Noster other Crede,Bot let him hab as he didde,For of the yift nath he no mede.Ich red, vp no man thou hab triste,No vppon non other,Ok del hit with yure owen fist.Trist to soster no brother.Anurith God and Holi Chirch,And yiueth the pouir that habbith nede;So God is wille ye ssul wircheAnd joi of heuen hab to mede.To whoch joi vs bringJesus Crist, heuen King. Amen

Seven Sins

The King of heuen mid vs beThe fend of helle fram vs te, To-dai and euir more!To-dai me yiue gode beginninge,The King of heuen to worthing, And spekin of is lore.And that ye hit mote vnder-stonde—The fend to mochil schame and schonde— This predicacioune,And that ye hit hold mote,Bodi and soule to mochil bote, And to saluacioune.Alle we beth meiis and mowe,And of one foule erthe i-sowe, Whoso hit wold vnderstond.This world is wel nis bot woweThis wrecche lif nis bot a throw, Al dai hit is gond.Man, ne be thou neuer so riche,Be-hold whom thou art iliche, Whan thou ert al nakid.Be-thench that thou salt i-worthe,And for-roti to axin and erthe Whar-of thou ert makid.Clansi the of thi misdede,And lerne welle thi life to lede The while thou art aliue.To none frend thou nab trist,Bot to one Jesus Criste, To child no to wiue.Mi leue frendis, Ich you bi-seche,Yung, old, pouer and riche, Herknith to God is speche!In the name of God and Seint Marie,Youre sinful lif to amendie To-dai Ich wol yow teche.And that He me let so wel to spek,To-dai the deuil is staf to brek, And with him so to fighte,Ther-to par charite Ich you crieA Pater Noster and Ave Marie In the name of God al-mighte.That pees that is in God is huseTo-dai be a-mangis vse, Throgh is holi grace;That me yiue lif and gode ending,And to you yiue gode lusting In this silue place!God him-silf seiith in His Gospel:'Mi leue frendis, Ich wol you tel,Nimith to me gome!O worde Ich you lie nelle,Of heuen blis no pine of helleNo of riche dome,''And of the heuid sinnes seuene,Whar-for men lesith heuene. Ich wol you nemeni alle,And har namis Ich wol you teche,And hou hi wol men bi-peche And make ham to falle.' First at Prute Ich wol be-gin,For hit is heuid of all sinne.Ich hit wol you do to wit—In Holi Boke hit is iwrit—Lucifer that was so brighte,that fairist was of al wighte.With-oute God in heuen nasNon so fair als he was.Nas neuer non so fule ifundAs he in helle lith ibund.Nad he no more gilteWhar-for he was of heuen ipilte.A litil prude him was in com,Ther-for God him hauith be-nomeHeuen blisse that euer sal last,And in-to helle he is cast.Ther he sal woni euer more,And is prude abigge wel sore.Alas! man, whi artou prute?Whannin commith thi fair schrute,Mid whate thou art ischrid aboute?Noght of the, man, boute doute!Thine owen schond thou werist an,That helith thi fleis and thi bone.Ich wol that thou iwit wel,Hit nis bote a hori felleThat is thine owen right wede.Be-thenche the, man, and hab drede!Man and womman, vnderstond this:Be-tak euch beste his—That ert so fair mid bi-gon—Linnin, wollin, glouis and schone,That thou art in hit so prute,Ne sal the leue neuer a cloute.Ther-for, man, Ich the for-bedeWorldlich prude in hert and dede;And lede thi lif bi Godis rede,To loui God and hab drede,That thou be God is sone,And Him to queme at the Dome. Coueitise is that other.Herkne nov, leue brother!Ther is mani man bi-peighte,So the fend him hauith iteighte.The man that is coueituseNe commith he neuer to God is huseSuche ther beth al to fele,That louith more this world is welleThan God, that hath ham of erthe iwroghte,And so swithe dere ham boghte.He nel is catel spen in wastAc euer he hit witith fast.He nold that aliue nereNone so riche as he were,And euer, so he hauith more,The faster he gaderith to store.And euer he wol is lif so lede,In mochel sorow and in drede.Nel he neuer hab restIs mochil mukke to witi fast,That ne mai in him slepe cumLest is muk be him be-nome.Leuer him wer yiue of is blodeThan ani man of is gode.Nel he of othir thing hede,But is fule bodi fedeMid his siluer and is gold,Noght is soule that he schold.Apan is muk he sit a-brode.He that thus doth mid is gode,He ne thenchith noght in is end—That he sal of this world wend—And vnderstonde noght he nelleWhat he is no whoder he schel.His catel he wenith witi wel,Oc in is soule thenche he nelle.With is siluer and is goldHe wenith euer is lif hold.Whan he wenith liuie wel,Mid deth adun fal he schel.The deuil be-nimith him his breth,Moch sorow than he him deth.For is gode the fend him deriith,And is soul to helle he feriith.The deuil is his executurOf is gold and is tresure,That he so moch trist to.Loke, nou, hou he is ago!Ther-for, man, in alle wise,Ich the for-bede couetise.To world is wel nab thou no triste,Hit went awei so doth the miste—Her it is, and her hit nis—Al-so farith the world is blis.Ne be he neuer so riche,Whan he lith a cold liche,If he hauith an old cluteHe mai be swithe prute,Whar mid i-helid he sal be,That no man nakid him ise,Of what he gadred and is was.Nis this rewth? Alas, alas!The thrid sin so is onde,That mochil nuthe is in lond—And euir hi quemith the fend of helle—In woch maner, Ich wol you tel.Leue bretherin, herknith now,And Ich wol you tel how!World is wel fallith vnlicheAnd noght euch man ilich.Sum ther beth that cun noght libbe,Sum that hauith frendis sibbe,And sum ther beth that swinkith sore,Winne catel to hab moreHam silf fair to susteni,And euer more hi beth nedi.And sum ther beth, leue brother,That more hath than another,And more loue of gode, man.Another wol after thanAreri cuntake.The MS text breaks off here

Piers of Bermingham

Sith Gabriel gan greteVre Leuedi Mari swete,That Godde wold in hir lighte,A thousand yer hit isseThre hundred ful i-wisse, And ouer yeris eighte.Than of the eight yereTak twies ten ifere, That wol be tuenti fulle.Apan the tuentieth dai—Of Aueril bi-for Mai— So deth vs gan to pulle.He pullid us of on,Al Irlond makith mon, Engelon ek as welle.Ful wel ye witte his nam:Sire Pers the Birmingham Non nede hit is to telle.His nam hit was and isse,Y sigge you ful, i-wisse. That vppe ssal ariseIn felle, flesse and bone,A better knight nas none, No none of more prise.Noble werrure he was,And gode castel in place. On stede ther he wold ride,With his sper and scheld,In hard wodde and feld No thef him durst abide.Do thenchith al in him,With weepin who wol win, Hou gode he was to nede,In batail stif to stond.I-wis pere nas nond, Alas, he sold be dede!Al Englis-men that beth,Sore now wep is deth, That such a knight ssold falle!Thos knightis, euchone,Of him mai make mone, As peruink of ham alle.Peruink he might be,And that for thinges thre He vssid of and lome.That was one of the best:He ne leet no thef hab rest In no stid ther he come.An other thing al-so:To Yrismen he was fo, That wel wiede-whare,Euer he rode abouteWith streinth to hunt ham vte, As hunter doth the hare.For whan he wend bestIn wildernis hab rest, That no man ssold ham see,Than he wold driue a questAnon to har nest, In stid ther he wold be.Of slep he wold ham wake,For ferdnis hi wold quake, And fond to sculk awai.For the hire of har bedde,He tok har heuid to wedde, And so he taght ham plai.Thos Yrismen of the lond,Hi swor and tok an hond The Englis-men to trai,And seid hi wold quelleAs fale as Ich you telle, Al apon o dai.The Erl of VluesterSire Emond the Botiler, Sire Jon le FizTomasIllgate al bi name;Sire Pers the Birminghame, This was har compas.This compasment com vteFram knight to knight abute, Hit was noght lang ihidde.Thos knightis preid alThat meschans most ham fal, Yif scape hi ssold ther-midde.And swor bi God is name,To yild the cuntre pane, Whan hi might com to,And that, with-vte lette,To certain dai i-sette This thing ssold be do.Lang er this dai was com,Hit was for-yit with som That neisse beth to nede.Alas! what ssold hi be ibor!Throgh ham this land is ilor, To spille ale and bred.Sire Pers the Birmingham,On ernist and agam, This dai was in is thoght.He thoght ordres to makeWhat time he might ham take, Of trauail nas him noght.O'Konwir that was king,His ketherin he gan bring— The maister heet Gilboie—Right at the Trinite,Whan hodes sold best be To Pers in Totomoye.And yite of other stooreCom Ethe MacMalMore, And other fale bi name.Sire Pers lokid vte,He seei such a rute, Him thoght hit nas no game.Sire Pers sei ham com,He receiuid al and som, Noght on iwernd nas.Sith hoodis he let make,Noght on nas for-sake, Bot al he did ham grace,Saue o wreche that ther was.He cuth noght red in place Ne sing whar he com.He was of Caym is kinne,And he refusid him; He wend vnhodid hom.He that this sang let makFor Sir Pers is sake, Wel-wid hath igo,Wid-whar i-soghtAnd god pardon i-boght, Two hundrid daies and mo.Explicit.

Loue hauith me broght in lithir thoghtThoght Ich ab to blinne,Blinne to thench; hit is for noght,Noght is loue of sinne.Sinne me hauith in care ibroghtBroght in mochil vnwinne;Winne to weld Ich had ithoght,Thoght is that Ich am inne.In me is care, how I ssal fare?Fare Ich wol and funde;Funde Ich with outen are,Ar I be broght to grunde.

Nego

Hit nis bot trewth i-wend an afte,Forte sette 'nego' in eni crafte.Trewth so draweth to heuen blisse,'Nego' doth noght so i-wisse.'Forsake' and 'saue' is thef in lore,'Nego' is pouer clerk in store.Whan menne horlith ham here and thare'Nego' sauith ham fram care.Awei with 'nego' vte of place,Whose wol haue Goddis grace.Who so wol a-yens the deuil fighteThen mai 'nego' sit aright.Ak loke that we neuer more'Nego' sette in trewe lore,For who so can lite hath sone ido,Anone he draweth to 'nego'.Now o clerk seiith Nego,And that other Dubito,Seiith an other Concedo,And an other Obligo,'Verum Falsum' sette ther-toThan is al the lore ido.Thus the fals clerkes of har heuidMakith men trewth of ham be reuid.